Tarantism, or dance your worries away, punk
by SilverCascade
Summary: Because some days are so awful, only music can save you. Genfic. Leon being Leon. One-shot.


**"There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours."**  
**— Jean-Paul Sartre**

* * *

Astringent sat on Leon's tongue when he turned the corner, festering and bubbling from the long walk home. Bruises bloomed on his chin and cheek, and even though they were small and fresh, they ached. The young man's feet were leaden, and the sun spewed heat over everything, making the stale dry air wobble. The bag slamming against his thigh brimmed with books, the muddy sleeve of his jacket flapping with every step he took.

_Just what the fuck were they thinking?_ He was so mad, so extortionately fueled with rage he thought he was going to punch down the mailbox. The red invited him, like a raving bull drawn to the toreador's scarlet movements, but his mother lay in the sun, cooking in the heat, beaming as her son pushed open their gate and stormed in.

"How was practice, honey?" The brim of her hat sat so low she couldn't see him, otherwise she'd have made a comment. Gushing or gloating? That depended on her mood.

"I don't wanna talk about it." He didn't kick at the lemonade sitting beside the sun lounger, though he wanted to. Leon entered the shade of his home before he caused any damage. Being yelled at by his father, now that'd be the way to finish this awful day.

When spoken of, the devil had a knack for appearing in a cloud of Paco Rabanne aftershave and a smirk from which Leon's own signature smile was derived. He couldn't see his father, for he appeared so suddenly in a flash of summer tan and broad, Hawaiian-style shorts. _Is that a lei around his neck? What the crap?_

"Good to have you back, son. How was practice?"

They needed to expand their vocabulary, if that was all they could think to say.

"Fucking awful." He hoisted the bag from one shoulder and shifted it to the other, the unbalanced weight now pulling at the left side of his body.

"Really? I think you look dashing." So, it _was _noticeable. Of course it was, dammit! "You look like a real baseball player now. Isn't it amazing, Leon? You finally look the part!" His father's voice was far away, as if he were looking not at Leon, but at his son's future self. The young man would bet a thousand yen on the fact it was some asshole in a ridiculous baseball uniform who didn't even resemble him. Pathetic.

"I'm going to my room." It was better to explain himself than storm away, lest his dad's dark eyes cloud over. To be sentenced to attend practice every night this week than just the twice a week ensemble he was currently contracted to, _that_ would be hell. He couldn't face spending any more time around those sweating losers.

It was too hot to sit in his room, alone, and stew in this misery, but what else could he do? It wasn't as if he could go outside looking like this, looking like a freak. It was horrible, this was horrible. Those fuckers at the baseball team had ruined his life!

But there was nothing to be done now. The photographer was arriving tomorrow, and he would have to pose for the shots if he still wanted to be a part of the team. He didn't - who _wanted_ to be there, for God's sake? But the scholarship would become invalid if he didn't show up, and his father would skin him, his hide would make a good carpet. He'd been threatened enough times, and it wasn't above his father to act on his words.

_Damn it! _His eyes stung, invisible grains of sand grating the back of his lids, and no amount of rubbing was going to make it go away. What could he do? He couldn't go out anymore, and after the shots tomorrow he was stuck this way until... who knew when? Nobody knew when this would be okay again!

His thigh buzzed, and he leaped, cursing the air as he checked his phone.

**_Messages: (4)_**

_**NAEGI:** I'm sorry about what happened today, Kuwata-kun! I just heard from Oowada-kun and Fujisaki-san, and they're worried about you. Please text one of us to let us know how you are._

_**MONDO:** shit i heard what happened from kyoudai he said he saw the whole fuckin thing man thats rough if u wanna come by the diamonds tonight or whatever u can. aniki's gonna be around and he doesnt mind havin ur punk ass there kyoudais gonna be there too so ya know dont be a fuckin dick_

_**DON'T RUN IN THE HALLS GUY:** Kuwata-kun, please accept my most humble apologies for today's events! I assumed you and your baseball brothers were having a friendly fight, much like kyoudai and his gang, but it appears I was mistaken. I shall see to it they are reprimanded for their harsh behaviour towards you!_

_**420 MYSTIC:** Kuwata-chi, I don't know what 2 say... I thought u were being attacked by the spirits when you walked past... I didn't recognize u! It wasn't just ur scary face... what did the ghosts of the old baseball team do to you?!_

Great, so half of his friends already knew, and apparently Hagakure had seen him around like this. Fantastic.

By habit, he stretched his left arm out, patting the air until slim fingers brushed the tower of CDs. The tower wobbled much like his lower lip. Without glancing its way he ran his fingers down, counting in his mind until he reached the one, slid it out, unboxed it, and slipped the CD into the stereo beside him. Then, crawling onto his bed with a defeated sigh, he fumbled around for the remote and hit play.

Sid Vicious' infallible laughter exploded over the room, and Leon hurriedly adjusted the volume to a level that would not have his parents rushing upstairs to berate him. But he still wanted the music to wrap around his spirits and push them towards the sky, so the volume didn't dip too low.

Sometimes he wondered what anarchy in the U.K. actually looked like, thinking back to the maps from geography class, nothing more than green blurs that appeared to be pigs or heads. He smiled. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine anarchy in Japan, but it was a concept so alien it made his head throb. So he kept his eyes closed and let the waves of complicated chords wash over his body, picturing the cutest girls he had ever seen. Sayaka Maizono kept phasing in, gorgeous cerulean locks swaying as he spun her around in their imaginary dance. But she didn't notice him in class, at least not right now... and that was okay. He'd get her to notice him in due time.

But the body that kept appearing in his thoughts was one he knew in explicit detail. Long, cascading hair glittering in the light one week, and the next it was cropped close to her head, shaken from its layers. The week after, her lips were studded with piercings, and the week after _that_, her face was clear and free from any metal. The last time he'd gone to the salon, she wore a pastel pink dress, thigh high and revealing her long, curvaceous legs. Whilst the time before, her body was decked head to toe in white leather, with heels that made her two heads taller than him. She was nothing he'd ever seen, always changing, always shifting, always immaculate. Sure, she didn't have the most astounding face in the world but, _damn_ her body was something else. And though he wouldn't admit it, her smile had the power to make his knees buckle.

Leaning over the stereo, he turned up the volume a smidgen, and, eyes still closed, leaped onto the bed, hands forming the distinct position of an air guitar. Through the colors exploding behind his eyes, he saw a stage. Behind him were his friends, shaking their limbs; Naegi tentatively twanging his bass, Mondo smashing up the drum kit, Hagakure breaking on the keyboard, and Fujisaki and Ishimaru, the backup dancers he didn't realize the band needed. Before him, or should he say _under_ him, were hordes upon hordes of girls, screaming along to the lyrics, shaking their hair and their hips. In the crowd he saw Maizono, and his friend Ibuki, and the nameless girl from the salon, just as the day he first laid eyes on them. And then, he finished the number with a blood-curdling screech, throwing himself off the bed and landing on his knees.

Leon's eyes shot open. His limbs froze, loose fingers turning to claws as electricity shot through his body and reached his brain. He opened his mouth in a silent gasp. Slowly, surely, he tilted to the left and toppled over. Screaming in pain, he clutched his knees to his chest, balls of his palms rubbing the sockets that wailed in agony. For many minutes he sat there, staring at the side of his bed, before stretching out his legs and wincing at the tightness. He got to his feet, palms splayed out and balance shaky, and cursed his rotten joints. The bathroom was but a few steps away. He creaked open the door and hobbled in, thankful for an en suite so his parents wouldn't yell about his stupidity.

And then, catching a glimpse of the monster in the mirror made his heart plummet into his stomach.

Some punk-rock look this was! Sour-faced, like he'd been sucking a lemon, he stared at the boy in the mirror. Two shiners on his cheeks earned from his comrades for resisting, and a small cut at the base of his ear from the razor winked at him. Clogged and congealed now, it was still streaked with the mud that followed those animals everywhere. But the biggest horror was the shredded, naked rat which was now his head. Cropped close to the scalp, he could see angry blood and skin behind what was left of his hair. Loose strands still hung at the nape, where the razor had missed or those fools had given up trying; he couldn't tell. His goatee had been taken clean off, and the metal ball in his labret lay exposed. He looked like a fuzzy cueball, he noticed, and swallowed thickly, brow furrowing and worsening the illusion.

The CD switched over, and he smiled as the opening chords of his favorite number filled the room. Sid Vicious was one thing, but the steady thrumming of The Clash was something else. This was his fourth time tweaking the CD, because it had to be perfect. Each time it got better. Something about _Death or Glory_ following _Anarchy in the U.K._ was perfect. So he stumbled out of the bathroom, shaking the image of himself out and replacing it with the hard words and harder guitar.

"_Leon!_"

He ignored it, swaying lopsidedly to the beat.

"_Leon!_"

One more time, just for the money, because did these two deserve to pay in small ways for the hell they'd put him through today.

"_Leon, your mother and I want to suggest something_!"

Sighing, he stuck his head out of his room, calling back down the stairs.

"_What?_"

"_We'll give you some money to go to the salon! They can tidy it up for you for tomorrow's shoot!_"

"The salon, huh?" Those words were for him alone, though he knew even his parents knew what he thought of the assistant at the salon. She never saw to him, which was perfect because he could check her out all he wanted whilst she worked beside him. "_Sure!_"

"_You can drive yourself down, son!_"

"Thanks," he murmured, grateful for their lack of persistence. Maybe they were finally understanding what he wanted from them. Maybe if they were loosening up about this, they would be more relaxed about baseball bullshit too and -

"_Bring your uniform downstairs! I want to wash it before tomorrow! Your mother wants you to look presentable!_"

Maybe not.

He grabbed an aspirin from the drawer, knocked it back with some old mouthwash because there was no time to get water, and he ran a hand over his scalp, pulled the CD from the machine's unhinging metal jaw, and slid it into the case. Now wasn't the right time to give it to her, but soon, soon. Maybe one more revision - _Rock the Casbah _had to be added, he thought, and maybe _London Calling_. The Sex Pistols to The Clash ratio wasn't right yet. There would be plenty more visits to the salon, he knew.

Swinging his keys around a perky index finger, Leon sauntered downstairs and outside, sliding past his parents whose smiles he didn't notice. Back at the mercy of the unforgiving sun, he shed his jacket and slung it over his arm. He unlocked the door of his father's cream Cadillac; it was a little old, a little musty, but otherwise suave enough to house him and gather the right kind of attention. Grabbing a CD from the small stack in the glovebox, he threw in One Ok Rock's Niche Syndrome, hit shuffle, and started the car. Leon smirked when the revs matched the opening bars of _Never Let This Go_, and he started singing along as he pulled away from the kerb.

Good music, a good chance of seeing a cute girl, and the wind flowing through the open windows, gently massaging his naked head... Maybe this wasn't so bad. Shaking his body to the music, Leon flung the steering wheel to the right, the car pulling up outside the salon with a jerk and a skid. With a light sigh, he threw back his shoulders, exited the car, locked the doors, and shoved the key into the back pocket of his jeans. As he swung back and forth on his heels, wondering whether to go in, whether this was a bad idea, and whether the cute girl would laugh, a light knock on the window caught his attention.

He glanced up, and almost died. There she was, hair piled on top of her head in an elaborate star, cerise lipstick staining her teeth as she smiled. Her incredible body lay hidden behind swathes of floral fabric. Leon felt his eyes widen, and his limbs didn't know what to do. It was too hot, his clothes sticky, a second skin, and he didn't know where to look. So he looked at her, swallowed, and smirked. She beckoned him with a finger, chipped black nail polish glinting, and he obeyed, walking into the air-conditioned building with excitement. It was then Leon realized she wasn't laughing at him, but smiling benevolently, almost as if she liked what she saw.


End file.
